Empty Space
by karaokegal
Summary: Wilson tries to have a movie date with his wife. Takes place during Season 2, before Sex Kills. Written for the Merry Month of Masturbation. Includes references to Wilson/Julie. 850 Words


House glanced at the TV set, barely registering whichever infomercial was attempting to gull the impressionable with promises of bigger dicks or flatter abs, before focusing his angry gaze back at the empty space on his sofa.

Wilson should be there, but Wilson was at the movies. With his _wife._ Even the thought of the word made his mouth pucker with distaste. He still couldn't understand how this _Julie_ had gotten through the emotional Maginot Line that House had built between Wilson and the outside world. He'd been willing to forgive Wilson his occasional stray fucks, but why go and get married?

Why take her to the movies when he could be here with House, eviscerating bad television, as they inched towards each other on the couch, never quite acknowledging what was happening, but always ending up doing the same thing?

Julie must know that whatever she'd "won" by getting Wilson Wedding #3 was rapidly slipping away. Wilson had to appease her rage by taking her out, a date that House had managed to forestall and sabotage for nearly two weeks before running out of ploys.

She'd probably insisted on some romantic comedy, with an impossibly perfect couple, featuring a falling-in-love montage set to yet another over-played song from the 60's. How perfect for Wilson and Julie; fake love and cheap nostalgia.

He could just see them giggling in the theater and sharing an over-priced tub of popcorn, hold the butter, because Julie was watching her weight. Maybe they'd hold hands, trying to create the illusion of romance. House could just imagine Wilson moving his hand to Julie's leg and moving his hand between her legs, the way he always did to House as their evening's turned into nights and the verbal ping-pong silenced into the inevitable grunts and gasps.

House undid his jeans, already hard, with no need for whatever pills the TV charlatans were selling. He didn't NEED Wilson. He could do this by himself. _See_, he thought defiantly.

He wondered if they'd go at it in the car on the way home, or save the act for the conjugal bedroom. Living room at home, he decided, splitting the difference. They'd come in the door, all happy, lovey-dovey, unable to save their domestic passion for another minute. Wilson would gently lower her to the floor, tasting remaining popcorn salt as he probed her mouth with his tongue, a tongue that House knew to be extremely talented.

His cock swelled against his hand and he reached blindly for the lube, knowing instinctively which cushion it had gotten lodged behind from the last time. Smoothness, cool and slick, his hand finding approximating the exactly grip and rhythm, but it just wasn't as good as Wilson.

What the hell could she be offering him on the living room floor that was better than anything Wilson could be getting here, he thought, fisting himself angrily? He knew all right. Two good legs wrapped around Wilson's smooth back. That's what kept him in the marriage. Not the pussy, not even the so-called "love," but the fact that Julie could keep up with him, and didn't need a double dose of Vicodin just to get out of bed in morning. That's why Wilson was fucking his wife on the living room floor while House was stuck jerking off alone on the couch, toes curling, panting, holding off release, thinking of Wilson's face, Wilson's mouth, Wilson's hand…always Wilson, until he came, with a grunt of simultaneous pain and relief.

The space on the couch was still empty.

He reached for the remote, thinking it might be time to call it a night, although he didn't look forward to a lonely night of fighting insomnia in bed.

His cell-phone went off, and he almost hoped his patient had developed a new complication. At least it would be something else to think about. He stared at the number. It was Wilson. What was he going to do, offer an analysis on whatever piece of fluffy inanity he'd seen with Julie?

"Hey, House."

No, he wasn't. House could hear the hint of dissatisfaction in Wilson's voice. Something had gone wrong with movie night. He felt a bit of bile receding.

"Why aren't you and Julie basking in the afterglow."

House could hear the frustration in Wilson's silence.

"Of the movie I mean."

"Look, I know it's late, but would it be ok if I came over for awhile." He lowered his voice. "Julie's upset. She's crying and she won't talk to me. I just need to get out of here."

For that one moment House was glad that Wilson wasn't there. He wouldn't appreciate the smirk.

"I don't know. I was just going to bed. Busy day tomorrow. Tai Chi at 7. Tae Bo at 8. Pad Thai at 9."

"House, please."

"Sure. Come on over."

"Thanks. I appreciate it. I'll bring a six pack."

"Bring two. By the way, what the hell did you guys see?"

Wilson's voice was so mournful that House forced himself not to laugh until he knew Wilson had hung up.

"Brokeback Mountain."


End file.
